Theatrical Muse Ficlets: Lucius Malfoy
by GMTH
Summary: A set of ficlets was written for the Theatrical Muse community on LiveJournal, where I play Lucius Malfoy. Each week, the moderators throw out a question and we are expected to write a response from our character's POV.
1. Predetermined role in society?

A/N: This set of ficlets was written for the Theatrical Muse community on LiveJournal, where I play Lucius Malfoy. Each week, the moderators throw out a question and we are expected to write a response from our character's POV.   
  
**Question:** Do you feel you have a pre-determined role in society, and why?  
  
**Answer:** Of course I do. I am a Malfoy. Allow me to share one of my earliest childhood memories with you.  
  


* * *

  
  
"Father, are you a king?"   
  
  
He didn't answer me right away. This was no surprise; I hadn't really expected him to. I knew I was not to disturb my father with childish prattle before he finished eating, but my brain had been buzzing with questions since our return from Knockturn Alley that afternoon.   
  
  
I glanced at my mother. She gave me an indulgent smile and gestured toward my plate. "Eat, Lucius."   
  
  
I picked up my fork and gave my dinner a half-hearted poke, swinging my legs under the table. Someday they would be long enough to reach the ground, I thought.   
  
  
"No," my father said at length. He set his fork down on the table and wiped both corners of his mouth with his napkin, laying it on the table before he spoke again. "I am not a king. Kings are a... muggle invention." His thin lip curled in a disdainful sneer and I mimicked him, my mouth contorting subconsciously with no real understanding of the emotion behind the expression.   
  
  
"Then why was everyone so nice to you today?"   
  
  
Father sat back in his chair. "Well, I suppose you could say we are as close to royalty as it is possible to get among wizards."   
  
  
"Why?"   
  
  
"Because we are Malfoys."   
  
  
My brow furrowed. Father's tone made it sound as though the logic behind this statement should be obvious even to a child of my age, but I had no idea what he was trying to say. "What's so great about being a Malfoy?"   
  
  
Mother's goblet stopped halfway to her mouth, and the wine sloshed a bit as she shot my father a nervous glance. Father's grey eyes narrowed as he studied me, his fingers plucking unconsciously at a patch of lace on the tablecloth. I stopped swinging my legs and sat very still, my heart thudding with a sudden surge of anxiety. I'd said something wrong. I didn't know what it was, but I knew enough to fear that gleam in my father's eyes.   
  
  
"Give me your hand," he said, his voice low and tense. I dropped my fork to the table and offered it timidly, and he snatched it up and dragged it toward him, drawing his wand at the same time. He said something in Latin I did not understand, and the tip of his wand gleamed as it changed to a needle-sharp spike. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my mother shifting in her chair; she seemed about to say something but my father ignored her and pulled my hand closer.   
  
  
Without warning, he drove the needle into the tip of my finger.   
  
  
The cry that leapt from my throat was born of surprise more than pain. My vision blurred with a sudden rush of tears and I tried to jerk my hand out of Father's grasp, but he held it tightly, squeezing my finger until a fat drop of crimson welled where the skin had been broken.   
  
  
"Look at this, Lucius," he said in that same low, ominous tone. "_This_ is what makes being a Malfoy so great. Your blood. You have the blood of many generations of wizards running through your veins. This blood -- the _purest_ of blood -- is the only kind of blood worth having." He released my hand and my finger flew to my mouth; I wasn't sure if the salt I tasted on my lips came from my blood or my tears.   
  
  
"You may leave the table."   
  
  
I was no longer bleeding when I went to bed that night, but my fingertip was still stained red just below the surface of the skin. I stared at it in the moonlight for a long while, thinking about the way my father had been treated that afternoon, the respect and fear I saw in the eyes of those around us as we walked from shop to shop. They denied him nothing; on the contrary, they went out of their way to ensure he had everything he wanted. If what my father said was true, and it _was_ our pure blood that made us so special, surely that meant that I, too, would be treated thus when I was an adult.   
  
  
The idea was a thrilling one.   
  
  
I fell asleep cradling my hand against my chest, feeling vaguely sorry for those whose blood was inferior to my own. The step from pity to contempt was a small one, small enough even for a child to take.   
  
  



	2. Selfpreservation or forgiveness?

A/N: Some dialogue is taken directly from _Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire._ Contains spoilers for _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix._   
  
  
**Question:** Which is more important: forgiveness or self-preservation?  
  
**Answer:** Sometimes, they are one and the same.  
  


* * *

  
  
"Lucius? What's wrong?"   
  
  
Narcissa's voice was an echo in the background as my arm caught fire. I stood up so abruptly my chair overturned behind me.   
  
  
"Lucius! What is it?"   
  
  
My lungs were constricting from the sudden lack of oxygen as I tore at my shirt sleeve with trembling fingers. The fabric shredded and fell away, revealing a patch of skin so swollen and tender that the very air swirling around it added another layer to my agony. I yanked the tattered remnants of my sleeve up to my elbow and stared down at my forearm.   
  
  
My Mark was black.   
  
  
"My God." Narcissa's gasp was warm against my ear, her fingers ice cold where they stroked tentatively across my boiling flesh. Hissing, I jerked my arm away. "What does it mean?"   
  
  
But we both knew. It had been thirteen years since the Mark had last burned like a brand, but neither of us had forgotten what it meant.   
  
  
"Get my robes and mask," I snapped at the hovering house-elf. "Now!" A loud _crack_ signaled its haste to carry out my orders.   
  
  
"What will you tell him?" Her voice was barely a whisper, but I could still hear her fear.   
  
  
My bowels turned to water. "I don't know."   
  
  
The elf returned with another _crack_, and my mind spurred back into action. I ripped the robes from its arms and hastily pulled them over my head. The mask felt foreign in my hands.   
  
  
"Lucius, I --"   
  
  
I disapparated before she had a chance to finish her sentence.   
  
  
***   
  
  
My first thought as I re-appeared beside a crumbling gravestone was that I was a fool. Surely the inconceivable could not have happened. The Dark Lord could not possibly have returned. I'd allowed some ridiculous trick to interrupt my meal and send me into a panic when neither had been necessary. A trap, most likely, perhaps even set by Aurors. I should have known better.   
  
  
The fear began to recede, anger tinged with curiosity as to precisely whose power had set my Mark aflame rushing in to take its place. I was reaching inside my robe, preparing to draw my wand, when a whoosh sounded behind me and Macnair appeared. Even in the dim light of the moon, I could see that his face was white as a sheet.   
  
  
We stared at each other for a moment, and then Macnair slowly turned his head. A silent shadow stood waiting for us in the clearing beyond.   
  
  
Macnair's pale face grew impossibly paler, and I felt the blood draining from my own. My hand was shaking as I lowered my mask.   
  
  
Then something drove me to my knees, and my trouser legs grew damp as I crawled forward on the moist earth. "Master," I murmured, pressing the hem of his robe against my mask. Beneath, my lips were dry and felt as though they would crack as I spoke. I dared not look up at his face as I backed away slowly and took my place in the circle, my knees nearly too weak to support my weight.   
  
  
"Welcome, Death Eaters," the Dark Lord murmured, and I finally gathered the courage to face my Lord. The sight was a horrible one; he seemed more snake than man. I shivered and tried to straighten my shoulders, act as though I weren't afraid, though my heart was pounding so loudly I was sure they could hear it in the small village beyond.   
  
  
"Thirteen years... thirteen years since last we met. Yet you answer my call as though it were yesterday. We are still united under the Dark Mark, then! Or are we?" He lifted his head and gave a great exaggerated sniff. "I smell guilt. There is a stench of guilt upon the air."   
  
  
Across the circle, a hulking shape I knew to be Goyle shifted uneasily on his feet, but no one spoke. The only sound came from a pitiful figure huddled on the ground, a glistening pool of blood puddled around its middle.   
  
  
"I see you all, whole and healthy, with your powers intact - such prompt appearances! - and I ask myself... why did this band of wizards never come to the aid of their master, to whom they swore eternal loyalty?"   
  
  
The figure on the ground rolled onto its back, and I realized with a pang of disbelief that it was Pettigrew. I stifled the gasp that struggled to escape my throat. My God. How many resurrections had taken place on this night?   
  
  
"And I answer myself," the Dark Lord continued in a voice so low I had to strain my ears to hear it, "they must have believed me broken, they thought I was gone. They slipped back among my enemies, and they pleaded innocence, and ignorance, and bewitchment..."   
  
  
My heart froze in my chest. He knew. My Master knew of my lies, my bribes, my traitorous renunciation. We had all betrayed him, denied our allegiance and publicly scoffed at his name to save ourselves from a lifetime in Azkaban, only to meet a worse fate in this moonlit graveyard a decade later.   
  
  
We were, every one of us, dead men.   
  
  
The Dark Lord continued to speak, and though I heard every word none of it made any sense. I swayed on my feet as he tortured Avery under the Cruciatus, stared numbly as he rewarded the sobbing Pettigrew with a hand of gleaming silver, all the while aching for Severus and Narcissa and Draco, knowing I would never see them again.   
  
  
And then suddenly, he was standing before me. The stench of his stale breath filtered through my mask.   
  
  
"Lucius, my slippery friend," he whispered, and a thrill of horror swept over me. Every hair on the back of my neck stood on end. "I am told that you have not renounced the old ways, though to the world you present a respectable face. You are still ready to take the lead in a spot of Muggle-torture, I believe? Yet you never tried to find me, Lucius... Your exploits at the Quidditch World Cup were fun, I daresay... but might not your energies have been better directed toward finding and aiding your master?"   
  
  
"My Lord, I was constantly on the alert," I lied swiftly. Could he see how I was trembling? Was he reading my thoughts as I spoke? Seeing my betrayal written as plainly as words on a page? "Had there been any sign from you, any whisper of your whereabouts, I would have been at your side immediately, nothing could have prevented me -"   
  
  
"And yet you ran from my Mark, when a faithful Death Eater sent it into the sky last summer?" he said lazily, and I closed my mouth with a snap. "Yes, I know all about that, Lucius. You have disappointed me..."   
  
  
The words closed around my heart like an icy fist.   
  
  
_"You have disappointed me, Regulus."   
  
  
Black's screams died abruptly as the Dark Lord lowered his wand.   
  
  
"My Lord..." he gasped, trying to roll over onto his back, but the Dark Lord silenced him with a glare.   
  
  
"Tell me again what you heard, Regulus." His voice was soft and patient, but the rest of us knew Black's lifespan could now be measured in minutes.   
  
  
Regulus choked and spat a mouthful of blood onto the ground. "The woman... the... the Seer... she said, 'The one... the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches, born to those who have thrice defied him, born -" another retching cough "- born as the seventh month dies...'" The words trailed off, and Black hung his head. His hair was so long that the ends trailed through the blood, painting a grisly portrait on the ground beneath him.   
  
  
"And then what happened?" my Master urged quietly.   
  
  
"I... I was discovered, my Lord. The innkeeper found me and... and threw me out of the building."   
  
  
The Dark Lord straightened and gazed down at Regulus with an imperious glint coloring his eyes. "There was more?"   
  
  
Black nodded, and a sob echoed through the chamber.   
  
  
"Then you have failed me."   
  
  
Black's body convulsed in a violent shiver, and he tried to raise himself up on his hands and knees. "My Lord," he said, falling back down onto his belly. He reached out one hand in fruitless supplication. "Forgive me. I -"   
  
  
"Avada Kedavra."_   
  
  
*"You have disappointed me, Lucius."*   
  
  
Black's transgression was mild compared to what I had done.   
  
  
A plea for forgiveness trembled on my lips. A heartbeat before I uttered it, I realized it would do no good, and with a great effort I managed to swallow it. Let me die a man, at least. Let it be swift.   
  
  
The Dark Lord examined me closely for a long moment before he spoke again. "I expect more faithful service in the future."   
  
  
My breath whooshed out of me with a suddenness that made my head swim. The atmosphere inside my mask became thick and humid with my relief. "Of course, my Lord, of course. You are merciful. Thank you." 


	3. What makes you laugh?

**Question:** What makes you laugh?  
  
**Answer:** A spot of muggle torture usually does the trick.   
  


* * *

  
  
"...and I, for one, am sick of it."   
  
  
"Walden, you're drunk." The corner of Narcissa's lip curled upward with disgust.   
  
  
"No 'm not." Macnair staggered across the room to the bar and picked up the bottle of firewhiskey. "And so what if I am?" he said, spilling another measure of the whiskey into his glass. Narcissa _tsked_ as the glass overfilled and the excess slopped over onto the dark wood. "I've got good reason to be."   
  
  
"What reasons are those?" I asked, amused, as a house-elf rushed forward to mop up the mess. Macnair never failed to put on a good show in his cups. "Ireland won the match, didn't they? I should think you'd be thrilled."   
  
  
"Look around you, Lucius," Macnair said, swaying on his feet. "We're in hiding. All of us. 'No magic where the muggles might see it.'" This last was delivered in a high, slurred falsetto, a credible imitation of the Ministry witch who'd given us the instruction. "Bloody anti-muggle security." He tipped the glass to his lips and took a long draught. His moustache was dripping when he lowered it.   
  
  
"I should think you would find it rather difficult to feel deprived under the circumstances, Macnair," Severus said quietly, with a pointed look around the room. He was the only person among us without a glass in his hand. "Lucius has very nearly recreated Malfoy Manor, and I don't see Ministry officials swooping in to chide him for it."   
  
  
"Lucius has the Ministry in his hip pocket," Macnair retorted, and I smiled into my snifter. "There are very few others who could get away with a set-up like this. Avery, Goyle, am I right?"   
  
  
"Hear, hear!" Avery said, raising his glass to me, and I nodded my silent thanks for the toast. Goyle merely grunted, his pudgy cheeks flushed a deep red. Macnair's beady eyes narrowed in on the empty tumbler in Goyle's mitt-sized hands, and he grabbed the bottle from the bar.   
  
  
"'S an insult, I tell you." As he approached with the bottle, Goyle lifted his glass unsteadily; it took Macnair three tries before the whiskey sloshed against the bottom. The rest formed an amber puddle on the floor at his feet. "Mmm. Sorry 'bout that, Narcissa." I did not need to see my wife's face to know the expression that had crossed it. With a disdainful sniff, she set her brandy down on the table and, stiff-backed, left the room without another word.   
  
  
Macnair leaned an elbow on the back of Goyle's armchair and tucked the bottle under his arm. "'M sick of it, I tell you. There's no reason we should have to live like this. To think we were _this close_ --" he lifted his free hand to his face and squinted between his thumb and forefinger, which were a few centimetres apart "-- to seizing power. The Dark Lord would have seen to it that we would never have to hide ourselves away like this again." He belched and his voice grew deadly quiet, his eyes unfocussed as though trying to catch a glimpse of a distant memory. "I miss the days when we were able to put fear into the muggles and mudbloods whenever the mood struck us to do it."   
  
  
"To the old days," Crabbe said, hauling himself to his feet, and a chorus of voices gabbled in response. The room was silent for a moment as we all drained our glasses, and then everyone was talking at once.   
  
  
"Remember when --"   
  
  
"I'll never forget the time --"   
  
  
"The best thing was --"   
  
  
"Gentlemen," I said, raising my voice just enough to be heard over the babble. The crowd quieted as I rose, leaning on my cane. The torchlight suddenly seemed over bright to my eyes. "I believe," I said, once every head had turned in my direction, "that there is a family of muggles here, on this very campsite."   
  
  
***   
  
  
It was a simple matter to transfigure the robes and masks we required, and simpler yet to break into the muggles' home. The woman screamed and the children cried, but it was the man's frustrated shouts that made me laugh hardest. I almost regretted having to take their voices, so fulfilling was it to hear his squeaky demands that we release them at once.   
  
  
Even better were the shrieks of panic as we marched across the campground with the muggles high above us, illuminated in a flood of greenish light. Nott shot hex after hex up into the air, and the muggles twitched and jerked, their bodies contorting as the spells hit. To my surprise and delight, even Severus got in on the fun, flipping the muggle woman upside down so her nightdress ballooned around her head. I nearly doubled over with laughter as she struggled in vain to regain her modesty.   
  
  
The crowd around us swelled as we crossed the campsite. The odor of alcohol was strong in the air, mixed with the scent of victory and the nearly-forgotten thrill of inciting mayhem. It was a heady combination and I forgot all semblance of dignity, laughing until my face was wet with tears and the inside of my mask heavy with perspiration.   
  
  
Macnair, I realized, had been right. I had missed this more than I would have thought possible. Once again we were showing muggles the superiority of wizards, and my heart swelled with the joy of it.   
  
  
As we approached the edge of the woods, a group of Ministry wizards appeared around us, and I was dimly aware that the sounds of our merrymaking was being replaced by the noise of a scuffle at the edges of the crowd. But I didn't care. My standing within the Ministry was secure, and I blasted another tent out of the way to make room for us to pass.   
  
  
Suddenly Severus, who had been walking in front of me, stopped short without warning, and I stumbled and fell headlong against his back.   
  
  
"Good gods, man, what are you --" I shouted, but a flash of green light up ahead made me bite my tongue. A glittering shape was rising above the treetops like a spectre, another long-forgotten memory that turned my blood to ice.   
  
  
And then the laughter died. 


	4. What is your favorite daydream?

A/N: Some dialogue taken directly from _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix._  
  
**Question:** What is your favorite daydream, and why?  
  
**Answer:** I rarely indulge in daydreams, but there is one scene from my life I have often re-written to my satisfaction.  
  


* * *

  
  
Harry?" The Mudblood's voice is soft, barely above a whisper. I hold my breath, not daring to make a sound, and thrust one arm outward to keep the others back.   
  
  
"What?" Potter snarls.   
  
  
"I... I don't think Sirius is here."   
  
  
He's come looking for Black. The Dark Lord always knows. After all this time, I don't know why that should surprise me, but it never fails to do so.   
  
  
Silence except for the sound of their footsteps drawing nearer. There must be half a dozen of them, and there is no doubt they are but children. No attempt at stealth. They may as well be preceded by a brass band. Then: "Harry?"   
  
  
"What?"   
  
  
Dolohov stirs, and I wave him off. We will not make the same mistakes they have made. Surprise remains our most formidable weapon.   
  
  
"Have you seen this?"   
  
  
"What?" Potter says again, and this time there is an edge of eagerness to his voice.   
  
  
"It's - it's got your name on."   
  
  
My heart rate quickens. There is no doubt that the prize we seek is nearly within our grasp.   
  
  
"My name?"   
  
  
"What is it?" The other boy's voice quivers, and I can imagine the look of surprise and trepidation that must be on his face. "What's your name doing down here? I'm not here. None of the rest of us are here."   
  
  
"Harry, I don't think you should touch it." The girl again. I close my eyes for just a moment, damning her meddling soul straight to her muggle hell.   
  
  
"Why not? It's something to do with me, isn't it?"   
  
  
"Don't, Harry." Another boy's voice. Potter seems to have emptied Hogwarts in his ill-advised attempt to rescue his godfather.   
  
  
"It's got my name on."   
  
  
I peer cautiously around the corner, holding my breath. Potter's fingers close around the prophecy, and I want to sing as he slowly lifts it from its place on the shelf. He stares at it for a few seconds, his curious expression lit by its soft glow, then brushes some of the dust from its surface.   
  
  
My mind whirs as I watch. Such an auspicious moment should be accompanied by the ringing of church bells, or the sound of a choir of angels. Anything but this crushing press of silence. And yet, it seems appropriate, somehow, that this reverent atmosphere should be the setting for the last moments of Potter's life. This is the way the world ends; not with a bang, but a whimper.   
  
  
"Very good, Potter," I say, and my voice sounds very loud in the stillness. I don't even try to mask the triumph I am feeling, but allow it to drip from my every word. "Now turn around, nice and slowly, and give that to me."   
  
  
Potter hesitates. A flick of my finger, our pre-arranged signal, and Crabbe, Jugson and Rabastan close ranks behind the group of teenagers. Before they can turn and raise their wands, jets of red light fill the air, and all but Potter fall to the ground. He looks around wildly, his fingers tightening around both wand and prophecy.   
  
  
"To me, Potter," I say again, advancing with my hand outstretched.   
  
  
"Where's Sirius?" The boy's eyes are wide and terrified. He takes a step backward as I move toward him; his final mistake. Crabbe locks his meaty fingers around Potter's forearms and drags him back against his chest.   
  
  
"Your race is run, Potter," I breathe. "Give me the prophecy."   
  
  
One last attempt at defiance as he lets the small spun-glass ball drop from his fingers. An easily anticipated move. My Accio reverses its course, and it falls into my hand with a muted _smack._   
  
  
The last thing I see as I Apparate away to my Lord is a blinding flash of green light.   
  
  



	5. Oddest gift you've ever been given?

**Question:** What was the oddest gift you've ever been given?   
  
  


* * *

  
  
  
"Oh Lucius, thank goodness you're here. I --"   
  
  
"How is he?"   
  
  
My mother's eyes were red-rimmed. "Not well," she whispered, her bottom lip quivering as she spoke. "Not well at all. The healers say he won't last the night." She twisted a sodden lace handkerchief between her hands and glanced up. She seemed to have aged ten years since the last time I saw her. "He's been asking for you for days. Why didn't you come sooner?"   
  
  
I made no effort to hide the stress and anger bubbling just beneath the surface of my skin. "Mother, have you no idea what I've been through these past two weeks?" I hissed, leaning in to glare into her tear-streaked face. She lowered her eyes and pressed the handkerchief to her lips with trembling fingers. "I'm a free man right now by the skin of my teeth, and you ask why I didn't come here before this?"   
  
  
Her lips moved in a soundless apology, and when she did not meet my eye I straightened slowly, acknowledging her show of atonement with a curt nod. "The important thing is you're here now," she said, her voice thick with tears. "Go. He's waiting." I turned on my heel and strode toward the bedroom door. My hand was on the doorknob when my mother's voice brought me up short. "Lucius. Be kind to him. Let him die in peace."   
  
  
I turned my head just enough to let her know I had heard. "You ask me to give what I have never received?" I said quietly. Her only response was a sob, and I pushed the door open and stepped into the dark room beyond.   
  
  
The atmosphere inside was stifling. Fetid. I immediately regretted not taking a deep breath before I entered. My skin was crawling with perspiration within a half dozen steps, but my father lay shivering beneath a pile of blankets as though the windows had been flung open to bathe the room in the cold November air. Grayish flesh hung in loose, papery folds on his cheeks, as though the bones beneath had shrunk and the skin had collapsed in against itself. I could hear the breath rattling in his chest from across the room, and as I watched, a spasm of pain rippled across his face.   
  
  
Father, I thought, and my heart skipped a beat.   
  
  
The rustling of my cloak alerted him to my presence, and he stirred. "Who's there?" His voice was thin and reedy, but somehow it frightened me more than his loudest shouts ever had. "Abigail?"   
  
  
"No, Father." I swallowed the lump rising in my throat and stepped closer to the bed. "It's Lucius."   
  
  
His eyes cracked open just enough for me to catch a glimpse of the yellowing whites. "About time," he mumbled. "I had given you up for Azkaban."   
  
  
I smirked. "I managed to talk my way out."   
  
  
"Coward." His eyelids fluttered shut as though he couldn't bear the sight of me any longer, and the small spark of compassion I'd been nursing since entering his presence sputtered and died on the spot. "This is how you show your loyalty to our Lord?"   
  
  
"Our Lord," I said through teeth clenched so tightly my jaw ached, "is gone. The Potter brat took care of that. I saw no reason to sacrifice the rest of my life to his memory."   
  
  
"He will return. Mark my words, Lucius. And when he does, he will not be happy with your betrayal. Yours, nor none of the others. My only regret at leaving this life is I will not be here to see it. I have a gift for you."   
  
  
The sudden turn in the conversation made me bite back the angry retort forming on my lips. "On the bedside table," he said. "There."   
  
  
A small black book lay where he had indicated, and I reached out to pick it up. "This?" I asked, tucking my cane under my arm to flip through the faded parchment pages. Each one was blank. "What is it?"   
  
  
My father's eyes snapped open, and a grim smile curled his lips. "That," he said, "is the key to bringing the Dark Lord back. Young and whole again. All it requires is the soul of an innocent, and he will return." The smile grew wider, drawing back against his toothless mouth.   
  
  
"You're delirious." I made to toss the book back on the table where it had lain, but my father's hand streaked out from beneath the duvet and he grabbed my wrist with far more vigor than I'd have believed he could summon. My heart hammered in my chest. It took every ounce of my restraint not to yank my wrist away from his between his feeble fingers.   
  
  
"No. Take that book, Lucius." His eyes burned with a madness I could not understand. "The Dark Lord himself gave it to me, many years ago. His memory is preserved within its pages." The strength seemed to drain from him all at once, and his grip on my wrist faltered. "If you have the courage, you will learn how to use it to hasten his return. If not -- and I expect you won't -- you will throw it in the fire as soon as you leave this room." His arm dropped back to the bed and his eyes drifted shut once again.   
  
  
For several long, horrible moments, the only sound in the room was the wheezing of my father's breaths. I could barely hear it over the pounding of blood in my ears. Then: "Have you nothing to say to me?"   
  
  
"I..." I didn't. But I was a father myself by then, and knew what Malfoy fathers expected of their sons. "Thank you. Father."   
  
  
He grunted as another flicker of pain caused his eyes to squeeze tightly shut. "You will be head of the Malfoy family by morning, Lucius." His final words came out in a pained gasp, and I was glad of it. "Merlin help my descendants."   
  
  
I did not say goodbye. I did not offer words of comfort as he died. The relief I felt as he sputtered out his last breath was as profound as that I had felt when the Minister told me I was free to go. My mother rushed past me as I stepped back into the sitting room, calling my father's name, but I did not try to comfort her, either. A fire roared in the hearth and I stood beside it for a long while, watching the flames dance in the grate as I held the small black book in my hand. More than once, I was only a heartbeat away from tossing it into the heart of the fire, but something within me was unwilling to give my father that final bit of satisfaction.   
  
  
I tucked it into the pocket of my robes and left my father's house for the last time. 


	6. What is your typical day like?

A/N: This chapter rated R.   
  
**Question:** What is your typical day like?   
  
**Answer:** I suppose that's all relative, isn't it.

* * *

August 1, 1995. 8:30 AM   
  
I drift out of sleep slowly, loathe to give up the pleasant dream flickering behind my eyelids, to feel the soft press of lips to my bare shoulder.   
  
"G'morning," the boy whispers, nuzzling my ear. His lips are rough as a cat's tongue against the sensitized skin on my throat.   
  
I don't answer him. He is, after all, only a whore; an exceptionally skilled one, yes, but a whore nonetheless. I've paid dearly for the privilege of having him spend the night, and I intend to make him work for his money.   
  
I turn my head away from him, baring more of my neck to his touch. He leans up so half his body is covering mine and mouths his way along the cords of my neck, tongue dipping lightly into the notch at its base. Oh, yes. He does know his business. His fingers are as experienced as his lips, skating purposefully along the hardness burgeoning between my legs. His progress is slow and wonderful, and the tension builds until I cannot bite back a moan. I feel those amazing lips curl into a smile against my abdomen.   
  
When I can stand it no longer, I roll him onto his back and take what I have paid for. Hard. Fast. I want it to hurt, and he squirms and cries out as though he is in agony. Perhaps he truly is.   
  
I don't know. Nor do I care. The illusion is enough to make it a perfect start to a new day.

_August 1, 1996. 8:30 AM   
  
"Wake up, Malfoy."   
  
I awaken with a start, thankful to have been pulled from yet another nightmare. The gratitude lasts only a moment, however, as I am immediately plunged into another, more horrible nightmare, one that will never end.   
  
My mouth has a foul taste in it as I swing my legs over the side of the cot. The springs creak in protest and I shiver; it sounds exactly like the squeals I hear at night from the family of vermin living somewhere in or near my cell. I've never managed to catch a glimpse of them in the daylight.   
  
Pugh leers at me through the window in my cell door. "Sleep well?" he says, sniggering. Even his voice sounds foul. Cretin.   
  
I glare at him, then look away quickly. He's got a nasty temper, and as the time passes I find I'm less and less able to mount a defense against it. "No? Aw, 'tis a pity, that." He snorts and spits a gob of something onto the floor outside my cell. "Get up, then. Welcome to another day in paradise."   
  
I sit on the edge of my cot with my head in my hands, trying to shut out the sound of his laughter echoing down the hallway as he moves on to the next cell._

August 1, 1995. 10:00 AM   
  
The bath water is hot almost to the point of pain, just the way I like it, and I settle back against the edge of the tub with a contented sigh.   
  
"Is good, Master Lucius?" A house-elf bobs into view, but I ignore it in favor of closing my eyes. I can hear it moving about behind me, but I pay it little mind until its hands tentatively touch the back of my head. I lean forward, and my mind finally clicks into place on the day ahead as it scrubs my back with a soapy flannel and washes my hair, rinsing the musk-scented potion from the long strands with liter after liter of warm water. It scurries to provide a towel as I finish washing myself, and then rushes into my bedroom to lay out my wardrobe for the day.   
  
It doesn't go far. It knows I will be calling it shortly, once I am dry and have pulled on my dressing gown. And Merlin help it if it snags the comb on even one tangle in my hair this morning.   
  
_August 1, 1996. 10:00 AM   
  
"All righ', then, up with ye."   
  
Pugh tucks his wand into his belt and saunters into my cell. He scratches his prodigious belly with his ragged fingernails as I haul myself to my feet. Just a few weeks of inactivity, and I'm already finding it harder and harder to move. Merlin only knows what effect months -- or years -- of incarceration in this place will do to me.   
  
I stand as straight as I can, refusing to meet his eyes as he shuffles closer. He looks me up and down, drinking in the sight of my filthy robes, his eyes lingering on the rip over my left nipple. He pokes his fingers through the fabric, ostensibly to feel the extent of the damage, I'm sure, but his filthy nails scrape over the exposed nub of flesh.   
  
He steps closer and I stiffen as his nose grazes along my shoulder. Under any other circumstances, this man would not have been allowed to come within a kilometer of me. But here, as I have already learned in the most degrading way possible, I am entirely at his mercy.   
  
Bile rises in my throat. But to my immense relief, all he does is take a deep sniff. I can feel his nostrils flaring as he snuffles along my neck and chest like a dog. Good. I smell foul and I know it. There is no one more deserving of wallowing in my stench.   
  
He pulls away, adjusting himself. "Ye smell fine t' me," he rasps, and my heart plummets into my stomach as he turns away and shambles toward the cell door. It will be a week, at least, until I am given another chance at a cleaning charm. _  
  
August 1, 1995. 11:00 AM   
  
The house elf goes off to punish itself as I finish dressing. I can still hear its squeals of pain as I descend the stairs into the sitting room. Breakfast is set, the dishes charmed to keep the food warm, the newspaper unfolded and waiting on my chair. Kippers, eggs, toast, tea, all prepared precisely the way I like them. I take my time over my meal, and read the paper from cover to cover._August 1, 1996. 11:00 AM   
  
My stomach feels like a vast, empty cavern by the time Pugh edges the door open and shoves a tray inside. A small bowl of watery porridge and a cup of cold, weak tea. Enough to keep me alive, but never enough to truly satisfy.   
  
I force away thoughts of thick, blood-rare steaks, hearty rashers of bacon and the intricate twists and turns of my wine cellar as I choke back the food. They don't even give me a spoon. I have to tip the bowl against my mouth and when it is empty, I lick the bottom clean.   
  
The first week after my arrest, I complained about the rations and got my first taste of Pugh's sadism.   
  
"Ye don' like it?" he said, and there was something about the glint in his mean, piggy eyes that made my blood run cold. His smile was no comfort. He turned and leaned over to pick up the bowl of porridge. "Tha's a right shame, that is." He snorted and gagged for a moment, hacking something up from deep in his throat, and then spat into the bowl. "There, now," he said. "Now ye've really got something to complain about, haven't ye."   
  
"This is an outrage," I sputtered. "Do you know who I am--"   
  
"Ye'll finish that," he said, placing the bowl back onto the tray as though I had not spoken. "And ye'll not get anything more until ye do."   
  
It took me two days to break. It's amazing what hunger can do to a man's pride._   
  
August 1, 1995. Noon to 9:00 PM   
  
The afternoon passes in a whirlwind of activity. A trip to Diagon Alley to shop for Narcissa's birthday gift. A meeting with my solicitors. Tea with the Minister, and another meeting with Dolores Umbridge. Then back to the manor for an hour or so of work, followed by cocktails and a late supper.   
  
By the time I retire to the bedroom with a snifter of cognac and peel off my wrinkled robes, I'm pleasantly exhausted. The house elves have turned back the bed linens and I crawl between them, balancing a book on my thighs. A plate of chocolate biscuits appears on my beside table and I study them for a moment before selecting one, then settle back against my pillows and give it an experimental nibble before finding my page.   
  
_August 1, 1996. Noon to 9:00 PM   
  
The afternoon lasts an eternity. There is nothing to occupy the mind in this wretched place, and I pass the eons lying on my bed, watching the torchlight ebb and flow on the wall opposite me. It has 186 white stones in it. Three hundred fifty four black ones. Of those, 212 jut out from the surface of the wall; the rest are smooth. It takes four giant steps to cross from one end of my cell to the other, or eight normal ones. The cell is draughty, and the torch flickers about eight times with every slow, deep breath I take.   
  
The only break in the monotony comes in what I suppose is the early evening, when the cell door cracks open and another pitiful meal is shoved through. My stomach is aching, but I wait to eat it as long as I can. Once it's gone, I have nothing more to look forward to that day, and that makes the long hours until it's time to go to sleep again even more unbearable._   
  
August 2, 1995. Midnight.   
  
I lose myself in the book for hours, reading until my eyelids have grown too heavy to trail across even one more line. A quick glance at the clock and I realize with a start that it is after midnight. I've stayed up far longer than I'd intended to. I mark my place and snap the book shut, then wave my wand to snuff out the candles. Turning my pillow to the cool side of the case, I settle into bed. The boy's scent still lingers on the duvet, and I smile sleepily before drifting off, hoping my dream from the night before will return.   
  
_August 1, 1996. 10:00 PM   
  
"Lights out!"   
  
Azkaban is always quiet now. They tell me it was a much louder place when the dementors were here, but now it is silent as the grave. In the darkness the quiet becomes almost oppressive, a palpable thing bearing down on me in my cell. I swear one day it will crush me in my sleep.   
  
Astounding how doing nothing all day can be so tiring. The cot is hard and the blanket is threadbare; I shudder to think what it will be like here once winter settles in.   
  
I pray my Master will not let me rot here that long. I hope against hope that Narcissa has written to Fudge, as I instructed, and offered him my deal. One more day is gone, wasted, but it means I am one day closer to my release. That thought is the only thing that keeps me going.   
  
I slip fitfully into sleep, hoping my dream from the night before will not return._


	7. What have you most regretted losing?

**Question:** What have you regretted losing most?  
  
**Answer:** I lost it on my 16th birthday...

* * *

"Happy birthday, Lucius!"   
  
My mother beamed as she placed a long, elegantly-wrapped package on the table in front of me. I tore the paper away with childish glee, whistling my delight as the polished wooden handle came into view.   
  
"It's beautiful," I said, my voice husky with awe as I lifted the broom from its nest of crumpled paper. I ran the pad of my thumb over the raised gold letters spelling out "Nimbus 1100," and a thrum of magic flowed through my hand.   
  
"It's the top of the line," my mother said, her face still glowing with pleasure. "The best money can buy. We're so proud of you for making captain of the quidditch team."   
  
"Thank you, Father," I said, examining the tapered twigs comprising the tail. It was an automatic response; I knew my mother had most likely picked it out for me, but it would never do to thank her first. My father grunted in reply without looking up from his newspaper. I glanced at my mother. Her smile looked frozen now, but her face softened when I grinned at her in return. "Thank you, Mother."   
  
"You're wel --"   
  
"Blast those bloody muggles!" My father slapped the newspaper onto the table with such force it made the teacups rattle. "Millicent Bagnold had _another_ meeting with their Prime Minster yesterday. More appeasement. By Merlin, this is getting ridiculous, I --"   
  
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my mother nodding sympathetically as my father droned on; every once in a while she would murmur her agreement. Recognizing the speech as my father's standard anti-muggle diatribe, I tuned him out and went back to studying my new broom. I couldn't _wait_ to return to Hogwarts in the fall with this beauty. My housemates would expire with jealousy when they saw it, especially Nott, whose father worked for my father, and Crabbe, whose father died shortly after he was born, leaving the family penniless.   
  
Oh, how I loved rubbing my family's wealth in their faces...   
  
I smiled.   
  
My father was midway through his rant when a house elf appeared at the table. "Excuse me, M-master," it stammered, bowing so low its long nose brushed the floor. My father stopped mid-sentence and glared at the tiny creature. It swallowed audibly before speaking again. "Sissy apologizes for interrupting, Master, but I thinks you should know there is s-something bad in the kitchen pantry. A bad, bad shapeshifter thing. Sissy thinks it is --" her voice dropped to a squeaky whisper "-- a boggart, sir."   
  
My father's lip curled. "A boggart?" he boomed. "How did it get into the house?"   
  
Sissy's hands trembled as she twisted the hem of her pillowcase between her fingers. "Sissy does not know, sir. It was not there this morning, sir. It m-must have --"   
  
"Never mind," my father said, swishing one hand through the air in an impatient gesture. "I'll take care of it." He tossed his napkin on top of the newspaper and pushed his chair back. "Lucius, come with me. After five years at Hogwarts, you should know how to deal with a simple boggart."   
  
"Yes, sir." I gave the handle of my new broom one last, loving stroke with my fingertips, and followed my father into the kitchen.   
  
The door to the pantry shook on its hinges as we approached it. My palms grew slick with moisture as my father grabbed hold of the doorknob. We'd studied boggarts in my Defence classes, of course, but I'd never actually faced one before, and the idea of facing my worst fear made my heart slam against my ribcage.   
  
I didn't even have time to pull my wand out of my pocket before Father opened the door. And then...   
  
...I stepped out of the pantry.   
  
But it wasn't the me I knew. I barely recognized myself. The boggart's robes were shabby and patched, the fabric so worn in places I could see the dim light shining through it. A mass of dirty tangles framed its face, highlighting cheeks so thin that the cheekbones jutted. Despite the warmth of the kitchen the Lucius-boggart shivered as though it were freezing cold, its chapped lips blue and quivering. But worst of all, its eyes looked haunted and dead. They were the eyes of a boy who has too soon become a man, and a man without a glimmer of hope, at that.   
  
A wave of horror washed over me as it shuffled forward, reaching toward me with one clasping hand. "Please," it whispered. "Please..." And I knew it was hungry. And alone. And desperate.   
It was poor.   
  
Somehow, my wand was in my hand but I couldn't find the strength to lift it. My tongue felt like a wad of cotton in my mouth. I have no idea how long I stood there, staring, before my father shoved me aside with an impatient huff.   
  
_Crack!_   
  
The boggart shifted as I stumbled out of its line of sight, and the image of my father took its place. This boggart was also shabbily dressed, its eyes red-rimmed with fear and its back hunched as it cringed away from the wand in my father's hand. I blinked. It seemed my father's fear was the same as mine, and in the heartbeat it took for him to raise the wand and point it, I felt a rush of kinship with my father I had never experienced before.   
  
_"Riddikulus!"_   
  
The boggart's body morphed into the soft curves of my mother with the head of a pig, and my fear receded to a bad taste in the back of my throat as we both burst into howls of laughter. Another quick wave of my father's wand, and the boggart exploded into a dense cloud of smoke.   
  
"Brilliant, Father," I said, chuckling, as the last wisps faded away.   
  
He smiled grimly and tucked his wand back into his pocket. "Too bad I can't say the same for you, Lucius." He shook his head. "Less than a worthy effort, I must say."   
  
It felt as though he had thrown a bucket of cold water over my head. The image of the boggart floated through my head once again, and I fought the urge to apologize. "I... I was startled."   
  
Father snorted. "Startled. Well. I suppose it's no surprise. It _was_ a rather unsettling picture, wasn't it?"   
  
I nodded, studying the floor at his feet. "Do... do you think that could ever... happen? To us?" I looked up to find him watching me with a guarded expression on his face.   
  
"Yes," he said. His tone was very serious. "It very well could, if we wizards don't stop kowtowing to the muggles."   
  
I felt my brow furrow in confusion. "I don't understand. How do the muggles... how could they cause us to lose our family fortune?"   
  
I saw my bewilderment echoed in my father's expression, for just a moment. Then his eyes cleared with understanding, and he sneered as he pushed the pantry door shut with a bang. "I should have known." He turned to face me again, his grey eyes flashing. "My fear is not that we will lose our fortune, Lucius. _That_ shall always be secure. _My_ fear is that someday, unless we do something to stop it, wizards everywhere will become so oppressed by muggles and mudbloods that we will be stripped of our ability to use magic."   
  
This did nothing to clarify matters. "But that makes no sense. How could they --"   
  
"Have I taught you nothing?" he barked. "Have you no idea what kind of threat these people pose to our kind? In any case, does it make sense that you should be more fearful of losing your comfortable lifestyle than you are afraid of losing your _heritage_?"   
  
My mouth snapped shut. We looked at each other across the miles that now seemed to separate us, and I watched as his expression grew hard once again.   
  
I knew in that instant I had lost my father's respect.   
  
I never got it back.   
  



	8. What is the biggest lie you ever told?

**Question:** What is the biggest lie you ever told, and what were the consequences?

* * *

The crowd was murmuring softly as I settled into the chair in the center of the room, so softly I could not quite make out what they were saying. The only person not speaking was Narcissa, who sat alone and ramrod-straight, her eyes fixed on my face. There was no sign of concern in her expression, only the vaguely disapproving look we'd long ago agreed would be her best defense should the unthinkable happen. A few seats away, Moody sat glaring daggers in my direction. The chains adorning the arms of the chair gave an ominous rattle before falling to the floor with an echoing, metallic clatter. I slumped in my seat, my shoulders hunched, my heart pounding with fear, though not for the reasons I was about to cite.   
  
So much was riding on what happened next.   
  
Barty Crouch stood up and approached, his face dark as a thundercloud, and the crowd grew still and tense. His voice rang in the silence. "Lucius Malfoy, you have been brought before the Council of Magical Law to answer charges relating to the activities of the Death Eaters," he said curtly. "We have reason to believe you were involved in several incidents concerning the torture and murder of Muggles and wizards alike. Evidence has been presented against you by several eyewitnesses. Do you have anything to say in your own defense?"   
  
"No."   
  
The crowd shifted in their seats, and the sound of urgent whispering rushed across the room. Moody smirked.   
  
Crouch seemed taken aback, but recovered quickly. "You -- you admit you were a party to these crimes, then?"   
  
"Yes."   
  
"I... see." Crouch's eyes began to gleam. "Well, if you have nothing to say in your own defense, this Council shall dispense with the remainder of the trial and get straight to pronouncing judgment."   
  
"Wait!" I leapt to my feet, and the chains on the floor snaked their way around my ankles. I sat down again, throat working hard. "Wait," I croaked again, holding up one shaking hand. Narcissa's face took on the pale, pinched look it always got before she began to weep. "I admit I was involved in those attacks, but it wasn't my fault!"   
  
Crouch narrowed his eyes. "And precisely what do you mean by that, Malfoy?"   
  
_"You are ready to accept my Mark, Lucius?"   
  
"I am, my Lord."_   
  
I dropped my head and stared at the floor. "I -- I was under the Imperius Curse."   
  
"Nonsense!" Moody's face flushed red as a beet. "That's a lie!"   
  
Crouch waved Moody off with an impatient flick of his hands. He regarded me silently for a moment, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Are you trying to tell this Council that you are not responsible for your actions?"   
  
_"You do this of your own free will?"   
  
"Of course, my Lord."_   
  
"Yes." My voice cracked with desperation. "The Dark Lord threatened my family. My son! I refused, of course I did! But he wouldn't take no for an answer!" My fingernails ached from digging them into the arms of the chair.   
  
"I see." Doubt was etched clearly on every line of Crouch's face.   
  
"You must believe me," I croaked. "When I refused, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named used the Imperius Curse. He c-controlled me for years." I swallowed hard, my mouth as dry as cotton.   
  
"You have no proof of this, I assume?"   
  
I shook my head. "Only my word --"   
  
"Which is worthless!" Moody shouted.   
  
"-- and the words of countless others like myself who were forced to act against their will."   
  
_"There. It is done. Welcome to the fold, Lucius."   
  
"May my loyalty never waver, my Lord."_   
  
"So. You have no evidence to substantiate your claim, Malfoy, and freely admit to being involved in the crimes in question." Crouch turned away to face the crowd. "I believe we have heard all we need to hear. What is the Council's verdict?"   
  
For one long, tense moment, there was no answer. Then a balding wizard in magenta robes slowly got to his feet. He looked past Crouch to address me directly. "On behalf of the Board of Governors for St Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, I would like to thank Mr Malfoy for his many generous contributions over the years. My vote is for release."   
  
Moody looked as though he could gladly murder me on the spot, witnesses be damned. A thin witch with a hooked nose stood next. "The Augustus Wilkerson Home For Orphaned and Abandoned Children is also in Mr Malfoy's debt. I, too, vote for his release."   
  
I held my breath as the third, fourth and fifth members of the Council got to their feet to express their thanks and cast their votes. _Thank you, Father,_ I thought desperately, my heart soaring as the sixth and seventh votes came down in my favor, _for teaching me the value of patronage._ It was the only worthwhile lesson the old bastard had ever imparted.   
  
When the final vote was cast, Crouch turned to face me once again, his hands balled into fists so tight they shook. "Very well, Malfoy," he said in a strangled whisper. "This Council has seen fit to release you, though I believe it is a grave miscarriage of justice. However, it would seem I have no choice."   
  
"Crouch! No!" Moody also sounded as though there were not enough oxygen in the room.   
  
"You are --"   
  
"Crouch! Are you insane?!"   
  
"-- free to go."   
  
The room rang with applause, and the chains binding my ankles slithered away. Narcissa was suddenly in my arms, her eyes red and her cheeks moist. Over her shoulder, I could see the murderous glint in Moody's eyes. His angry growl was only just audible over the excited chatter of the crowd.   
  
"This. Isn't. Over. Malfoy."   
  
"Yes. Yes, it is," I said, taking my wife's hand and leading her past the enraged Auror. "It _is_ over. And I'm going home." 


	9. Have you ever regretted a wish you made?

**Question:** Have you ever regretted a wish you made? Why? What happened?

* * *

The Dark Lord never missed an opportunity to let me know he was disappointed in me. 

He never said anything overt; that was not his style. But there was no missing the cold glint in his eye, the way his thin, horrible lips curled with just a touch with disdain whenever he glanced in my direction. Harder yet to bear were the harsh tones with which he addressed me, and the gentler, almost silky way he spoke to Bellatrix and the others who had gone to Azkaban to await his return. "My loyal Death Eaters..." he would say at the beginning of each of our meetings, standing in the center of our circle with his back to me, and the implication was clear. I, who had wielded such power during the first war, who had stood at his side as his most-trusted lieutenant, was now in disgrace. 

It was an intolerable state of affairs, and I knew I had to do something about it. 

One evening after he had dismissed us, I fell to my knees as the others filed silently from the room. And I waited, my head bowed, until he saw fit to acknowledge me. The floor grew harder and harder beneath my knees and my back began to ache with the strain of holding my position, but I dared not stir. I could hear his robes swishing as he went about his business, ignoring me, no doubt enjoying the growing frustration and anger I tried vainly to hide as the minutes ticked by. 

I've no idea how long I knelt there, serving my penance, before he finally stepped up beside me. "Lucius. You wish to speak to me." 

The muscles lining the back of my neck screamed as I lifted my head. "Yes, my Lord," I said, tearing off my sweat-soaked mask. There was no hint of encouragement in his expression. He had no interest in what I had to say. 

I swallowed hard before speaking again. "I I wish to ask once again for your forgiveness, my Lord." 

His irritable sigh made my heart sink into the pit of my stomach, and I fought the urge to fling myself on the hem of his robes. "I told you once before, Lucius," he said softly. "I do not forgive. Surely you have not forgotten." 

"No," I said, fighting to keep my voice steady. "No, of course I have not forgotten, my Lord." 

"Then why are you wasting my time?" 

"I " The pretty speech I had prepared to convince him my desire to serve was genuine died on the back of my tongue. "Give me another chance to prove my loyalty." To my horror, my voice broke as the plea came tumbling out. "I wish to lead the others in the raid on the Ministry. To retrieve the prophecy." He began to turn away, and I lurched to my feet. "_Please_, my Lord." 

He glanced at me over his shoulder. "No." 

I felt the blood rush into my cheeks as he slowly drifted away across the room. "I've no reason to trust you any longer, Lucius," he said, lowering himself into a chair and arranging his robes around his legs. "None whatsoever." 

My face was burning now. "I've done everything you have asked of me since your return. Without fail. Without question. I placed Bode under Imperius, as you ordered, and sent him to the Hall of Prophecy " 

"Yes, and we see what good that did." 

"That was Avery's error, not mine," I said quickly, wishing I had never removed my mask. It was doubly humiliating that he should see the anger coloring my face. "I brought you the information the house-elf gave my wife, about Black and Potter and what they mean to one another. Without that, you would never have been able to conceive your latest plan." I paused but he did not respond, and I hurried on before he could change his mind. "And I know the Ministry like the back of my hand, my Lord. This will give us an advantage. I know every passageway, every hiding place. Potter cannot hope to escape us." 

The Dark Lord rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and regarded me closely over his steepled fingertips. "You make a persuasive argument, Lucius," he said quietly. "I had planned to give Bellatrix or Dolohov the honor of leading my Death Eaters, someone whose loyalty has never been in question " 

I hurried to his side and dropped to my knees again. "With all respect to those you have named, my Lord," I said desperately, "neither of them is quite... right in the head since their incarceration in Azkaban. I consider it my duty to look after their safety, to make sure they do not injure themselves " 

A high, cold laugh halted the flow of words, and I closed my mouth and bowed my head. "Your concern for the others is touching, Lucius," the Dark Lord said with a derisive chuckle, and for one terrible moment I was sure I had pushed too hard. "However, I must concede your point is a valid one." I held my breath as he stood, watched his robes swish along the floor towards me from beneath my eyelashes. "Very well," he whispered, his long fingers brushing across the top of my head. I repressed a shudder at the unexpected caress. "I will grant your wish. You may have the honor of serving me." 

The knot of tension unraveled in my chest and I glanced up quickly, a smile of gratitude blooming on my lips. He returned the smile for only a moment before his eyes narrowed. "Do not fail me again, Lucius," he said in a tone so dark it made my skin crawl. 

I swallowed. "I won't, my Lord. Thank you. Thank you." 

He nodded once, slowly, and dismissed me with a languid wave of his hand.

* * *

"Ah yes, Lucius," I whispered to the darkness, "you got your wish." 

I shivered and rolled onto my side, tugging the blanket up to my chin. My cell was so cold I might as well have been lying naked on the thin, patched mattress. 

"You got your chance to serve." 

Something small scurried across the floor, its tiny claws clacking loudly on the stone, and my empty stomach cramped. A choked sob echoed down the corridor. My neighbor in the next cell was having another of his nightmares. 

"Congratulations." 


	10. Is it worse to be gullible or skeptical?

**Question:** Which are you more afraid of: Being too gullible and believing things that aren't true, or being too skeptical and missing out on something important?

* * *

"Ah, Lucius." Fudge had tossed his quill to the side and was on his feet and around the desk before I had taken three full steps inside his office. "Come in, come in. Do sit down." 

"Fudge," I said, nodding a greeting. He clapped a hand on my shoulder and steered me into the chair opposite his desk, and I wondered if he could feel the knot of tension in the muscles beneath his fingers. "You wanted to see me?" 

"Yes, Lucius," he said as I sat, planting the tip of my cane on the floor beside my chair. "Would you like some tea?"

I shook my head and kept my silence as he crossed the room to the tea service, tapping his wand against the silver teapot until steam gushed from the spout. His hands shook as he poured himself a cup, overfilling it until it splashed into the saucer.

"I need your advice, Lucius," he said, returning to his desk after fumbling with the sugar bowl. This, I knew from past experience, meant _Tell me what to do, Lucius_ in Fudge-speak, and I allowed myself to relax, just a bit. Perhaps this would be easier than I thought.

Fudge blew a tendril of stem from the surface of his tea and took a cautious sip. "You've heard the rumors, I assume?" he asked, wincing. The fool always made the water too hot to bear.

"What rumors are those?" I asked blandly.

His hands were shaking so badly now more tea slopped out of the cup. A puddle formed on the parchment below, smearing the ink, and Fudge set the cup down and pushed it aside. "The rumors that -- " his voice dropped to a whisper "-- You Know Who is back."

_Damage control, Lucius,_ the Dark Lord had said before I'd apparated from the graveyard. _We cannot afford to let anything stand in our way. You must use your influence at the Ministry._

I allowed my eyes to widen in surprise. "What's that you say?" 

Fudge leaned forward over his desk, heedless of the inky brown stain spreading rapidly over the sleeve of his robes as he brushed against the tainted parchment. "You. Know. Who. They say he's back again."

I gave a well-rehearsed scoff. "Back?" I replied, letting just a touch of amusement edge its way into my tone. "From the dead?"

"That's just it, Lucius." The color had all but drained from Fudge's cheeks. "They claim he _isn't_ dead, and never was! Dumbledore's been saying it for years, and now Potter --"

I waved the rest of his sentence away. "_Those_ are your sources? Dumbledore? And Potter?" I gave him a condescending tsk, shaking my head. "Surely you have better things to do with your afternoon, Fudge. You might have frightened me out of my wits." 

"But Dumbledore said --"

"Dumbledore is a fool. And he's been playing _you_ for a fool for years." I got to my feet and loomed over Fudge's desk, gratification surging through me as he leaned back in his chair, as far away from me as he could get. "This is obviously nothing more than another attempt to discredit you." Uncertainty crept across Fudge's face, and I pressed my advantage. "He is running that school into the ground, Fudge, and that ultimately reflects badly on _you_. First he hires that brainless imbecile, Lockhart. Then that oversized oaf, Hagrid. Then the werewolf." I could not hold back a nasty sneer. "And then Moody." I began to pace, and whacked the edge of Fudge's desk with my cane, my agitation no longer feigned. "You heard what that madman did to my son, I assume?" 

"That wasn't Alastor Moody, Lucius," Fudge said quietly. "It was Barty Crouch's son."

I stopped short and turned slowly to face him. "Crouch?" My mouth went dry. So that was the "loyal Death Eater" the Dark Lord had sent to Hogwarts. "How -- how did he escape from Azkaban?" 

Fudge sighed and scrubbed his face with his hands. "I've no idea."

I looked away, my mind racing. "Where is he now?" I had to find a way to make sure he was silenced. He knew far too much to be trusted in the Ministry's care.

"At St Mungo's, I presume. I had him Kissed."

My heart started to pound, and I struggled to contain a chortle of glee. With Crouch out of the way, my own position in the Inner Circle was assured. "I see," I managed. "Useful things after all, those dementors, eh?"

"Dumbledore wants me to remove them from Azkaban." I sputtered in mock outrage, but before I could form a coherent retort, Fudge continued. "_And_, he wants me to send envoys to the giants."

I schooled my features into a stern glare, making a mental note to take this information to the Dark Lord as quickly as possible. "Now see here, Fudge. This is beyond ridiculous. What evidence does Dumbledore have to back up this... _preposterous_ story?" 

"Just Potter's word, as far as I know." 

Potter. My fist clenched around the head of my cane. The taste of fear and anger after he'd escaped the graveyard was still bitter on my tongue. "Well, that settles it, doesn't it," I said, teeth clenched. "Potter is obviously mad. We've suspected it for years, and this proves it."

Fudge's face twisted with misery. "But Dumbledore seemed so certain." By God. The man was as spineless as they came.

"Fudge. Enough." I cut an impatient slash in the air with the side of my hand. "You've given Dumbledore far too much slack over the years, and now he's trying to hang you with it. He's expecting you to be gullible enough to swallow this tall tale, and then -- mark my words -- he will use the uproar you create to remove you from this office. You owe it to yourself -- to _all_ of us -- to stand firm."

"That's what I told him," Fudge said, his lips narrowing into a hard frown. "And he vowed to fight me."

"Then let him try. And when the whole thing is exposed as a sham, Dumbledore will be the one to pay the price, not you."

Fudge hesitated, and for a moment I feared the façade would crumble. "Then you've heard nothing about this, Lucius?" His voice was tinged with desperation. "Nothing at all? You're _sure_?" 

"Listen to me, Cornelius. If You Know Who had returned, I would be in great danger. I exposed him as the one who put me under the Imperius Curse all those years ago. Surely his re-formed followers would want to punish me for that. And yet..." I spread my hands and glanced around the office. "Do I look concerned?"

He studied me for a long moment, and I prayed the hope bubbling in my chest was not shining in my eyes. "No," he said at last, and his face broke into a wide, relieved grin. "No, you don't. Very well, Lucius. Thank you for your advice."

I smiled coldly. "Not at all. My pleasure, Cornelius."

"And you're right. It's time I started keeping a tighter rein on Dumbledore, as well." 

My smile grew wider. "I should be happy to advise you on that, too, if I can."

"Yes, yes, of course. Are you in a hurry? Or can we discuss the matter now?" 

"I have no plans for the afternoon," I replied, settling myself back down in my chair.

"Excellent," he said, rounding the desk once again. "Are you sure I can't talk you into a cup of tea after all?"


	11. Combined challenge response

**Combined challenge response:** "The first time I saw..." and "What is the one thing about yourself you don't want anyone else to know?"

**Answer:** The first time I saw my wife after my arrest, she brought me some dreadful news... (NOTE: Contains spoilers for HBP.) 

"Malfoy!"

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Pugh's piggy face pressed against the small barred window in my cell door. I did not turn my head, but continued to watch the cobwebs above my bunk ripple in slow waves. A small act of defiance perhaps, but a safe one, more or less; so many prisoners went mad in here, even without the dementors, that most of the guards had become accustomed to repeating themselves.

"Don't ye dare ignore me," Pugh growled, and the happy idea that I might have got away with something vanished in a puff of smoke.

I sat up on the edge of my bunk. Pugh's face was beet-red. "I wasn't ignoring you," I said quickly. "I --" my mind raced "-- I was thinking about something and I didn't hear you." 

Pugh sniggered. "Thinking about something, eh? Well. Ye've got a visitor out here, but seein' as how yer so lost in your thoughts and all, I reckon you're too busy to see her, that right?" 

"A visitor?" My voice sounded overly eager even to my own ears, and Pugh bared his teeth in a malevolent smile that made my chest tighten with hopeless fury. It took a special brand of sadism to dangle such an irresistible carrot in a prisoner's face. 

But then Pugh said, "Yeah. Yer wife." 

"Narcissa?" I was on my feet and hurrying toward the door before the name was fully formed.

"Back off," Pugh snarled, brandishing his wand, and at the same moment I heard my wife's trembling voice call, "Lucius?" I froze in my tracks. Pugh jabbed his wand through the window, and I moved away slowly, hands raised to chest level, step by careful step until I could feel the mattress against the back of my knees.

After a moment Pugh lowered his wand, and I took a deep, silent breath. "Yeah," he said again, turning his head toward the direction from which Narcissa's voice had come. "And she's right pretty, too." His eyes rolled as they trailed up and down her figure, and I gritted my teeth against the idea of him looking at my wife the way men looked at the whores on Knockturn Alley. "Pity you had to get uppity with me, Malfoy," he said, turning to look at me again. "It's a right shame I'm going to have to send her away, innit."

"Please," Narcissa's voice filtered in through the bars again. She sounded close to tears. "Let me see my husband. I've come such a long way."

"Well..." Pugh dragged the single syllable out, scratching at his stubbly chin as he pretended to think about it. "I s'pose I can find some other way to deal with this little infraction." A wave of nausea made my stomach writhe. I knew exactly what that meant. "All right then, missus, ye can go on in." The key scraped in the lock, and a moment later the door swung open. Pugh took up more than half the doorway as he raised his wand at me again; Narcissa had no choice but to slide along his belly as she eased her way past. "Fifteen minutes," he grunted, slamming the door shut behind her with a clang that made her jump. "And this ain't no conjugal visit. I'll be right outside."

We stared at each other across the cell for a few heartbeats that seemed to last an age. She looked so small. It struck me later what an odd first impression that was after not seeing her for so long, but all I could think was how small and delicate she looked in comparison to the huge, lumbering guards. Her white traveling cloak glowed in the torchlight, the only garment in the entire prison that wasn't stained with sweat and streaked with grime.

And then she was in my arms, and my cheeks were wet and hot from her tears. I could taste their salt on her lips as she kissed me. The stench of the prison had not yet permeated her clothes, and I was certain I could detect the fragrance of the manor's rose garden in her hair. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed the texture of her skin until I felt it beneath my fingers again, and for an instant I was sorry she had come; being reminded would only serve to make it that much more difficult to forget once again.

"Lucius," she murmured, pulling back until I could see the tears trembling on her eyelashes. "My darling. Are you all right?"

I said nothing. Surely the evidence before her own eyes was testimony enough. "Why have you come?" I whispered instead, pulling her down alongside me as I sat on the edge of my bunk. "Narcissa, it's unspeakably dangerous for you to be here."

A single tear meandered its way along her cheekbone as she carded her fingers through the limp hair hanging over my shoulder. They snagged almost immediately in the tangles. "I've come about Draco," she said quietly, trying in vain to work the knots loose. "He's got himself into some terrible trouble."

"What's happened?" I demanded, and she gave up on my hair and clutched at my hand instead. "Narcissa. What's happened? What has Draco done?"

"Oh, Lucius. So much has happened since you've been gone. The Dark -- " I cut her off with a frantic shake of my head, then nodded toward the door and Pugh standing in the corridor just beyond. Her throat worked for a moment before she nodded in return. "Our... friend," she said, her voice barely audible, "is so angry with you, Lucius, for... for your error." This reminder of my shame stung, coming as it did less than five minutes into our reunion, and I jerked my hand from her grasp. Oblivious to my anger, or perhaps uninterested in it, Narcissa went on as though she hadn't noticed. "He has given Draco a task. An impossible task." Her fingers trembled as she pressed them against her lips. "I am not supposed to speak of it," she whispered, the color draining from her face. "He has forbidden it. But you should know. You _must_ know." 

"What is it, Narcissa?" I asked crossly. Her histrionics were becoming tiresome. We had only moments together, and I was desperate for all the news of the world outside the fortress. 

She lowered her hand slowly and squared her shoulders. Small spots of red appeared high on her cheeks in response to my tone. "He is to kill Albus Dumbledore."

I blinked. "Draco?" Kill Dumbledore? "What --" I certainly hadn't expected anything like _this_. "When did he take the Mark?" I whispered fiercely, unable to think of anything more intelligent to say in the face of this extraordinary revelation.

"Just after you were captured. Bellatrix took him."

"Oh, she did, did she," I said quietly, a note of bitterness creeping into my tone. I had planned to take him to the Dark Lord myself, would have done in a year's time when he turned 17, had I not been robbed of the opportunity.

"He insisted." Narcissa's eyes were bright with tears again. "He so desperately wanted to, Lucius. To avenge you. And, I think, to prove to... to _him_ that the Malfoy name is still worthy of respect."

She spoke this last with more than a hint of contempt, as though it were a trivial matter and hardly worth the risk, but a desperate spark of hope and pride made my breath catch in my throat. If the Dark Lord trusted Draco -- _my son_ -- to carry out such an important task, surely it was meant as a message to me. Regardless of what Narcissa had said earlier, I knew by this the Dark Lord was as good as telling me he accepted my sacrifice and would arrange for my release as he had the others, as soon as Draco redeemed the family name. I sat up a bit straighter, ignoring Narcissa's renewed sobs, and watched the shadows from the torchlight ebb and flow across the stone wall, allowing myself to imagine the welcome I would receive upon my return to the fold. Once Draco succeeded --

The thought pricked the bubble of relief and anticipation expanding in my chest with the ruthless efficiency of a pin bursting a balloon. "He won't succeed," I said dully, my shoulders sagging as reality reared its ugly head. He hadn't a chance. Not a prayer. Oh yes, this was a message from the Dark Lord, but it was not the one I'd been hoping for.

"Of course he won't!" Narcissa swiped angrily at her cheek, brushing away the tears. "The Dark L -- _he_ realizes this as well. And when he fails, Lucius, when he fails, he will be killed. You know it as well as I!"

And I would be left here forever. No chance even to sire another heir. The Malfoy line would end with me.

A thousand-pound weight settled on my shoulders. "Why have you told me this, Narcissa?" I asked, my voice weary. "What can I do about it?"

She smiled then, a thin, almost cruel smile that made my blood run cold. "Nothing. There's no need, Lucius. I took care of it all on my own. I went to Severus." 

I stiffened. _Severus?_ My heart began to race as a shiver of fear crawled its way up my spine. "What?"

"I asked Severus to take the Unbreakable Vow." Her smile grew wider, almost mad, and for a moment I could have sworn I was looking into the face of her sister. "He has pledged to watch over Draco for me, to help him, and to carry out Draco's task for him if he cannot manage it on his own."

I grabbed her by the forearms and shook her once, hard. "My God, Narcissa, what have you done?"

"What have I done?" She pushed me away and jumped to her feet, her pale face glowing suddenly red. "I've done what I had to do, to protect my son. _Our_ son!" 

"Are you mad?" I was on my feet beside her before I'd even realized I'd moved, glaring down into her flashing eyes. "Severus -- he doesn't have any more chance against Dumbledore than Draco does," I hissed. "If our _friend_ hasn't even been able to manage it, how do you suppose Severus can? The old man will cut him down in the blink of an eye, and -- " 

_And I will lose Severus and Draco, both._

My heart seized at the thought. I would never see Severus again. Never feel his hands on me, or taste his skin, or hear his voice grow rough with want. For weeks, I had been forbidding myself even to contemplate the possibility. But there was no turning away from it now. I bent my head and closed my eyes. The sense of loss was already overwhelming.

"I don't understand you, Lucius," Narcissa snapped. "Given the choice between Severus and your own _son_ --"

"It is obvious you do not understand, Narcissa," I said, my eyes snapping open again, a sudden swell of anger forcing my mind from the emotional to the practical. I took a step closer to her and lowered my voice to a choked whisper. "If Severus tries to kill Dumbledore and does not succeed, he will be dead. If he tries to kill Dumbledore and _does_ succeed, the Dark Lord will lose Severus as a spy. Who else in that wretched Order can possibly trust him enough to allow him to remain?" Her mouth dropped open slightly in surprise, and my hands curled into tight fists. "Either way, Severus will become useless to the Dark Lord, will he not? You have as good as signed his death warrant."

There was no need to unburden myself as to my personal feelings about Severus. There never had been.

Narcissa studied my face for a moment, and then her lips clamped shut into a hard, cold line. "If I didn't know any better, Lucius," she spat, "I'd say you cared more about Severus than you ever did about Draco."

"Time's up." Pugh's voice broke in before I had a chance to respond. Narcissa backed away a few steps, her narrowed eyes still trained on my face, then turned in a whirl of her cloak as the door creaked open. "Had a nice visit, then, did we, missus?"

"Charming," Narcissa said shortly, pulling a pair of gloves out of her pocket and thrusting her hands into them.

Pugh smiled, obviously enjoying the tension in the air even if he didn't understand its source. "Right. Well, I'll just take ye back upstairs, then." He turned to look at me, and the greedy expression on his face made my stomach churn. "I'll be back to deal with you, Malfoy," he said, reaching down to adjust himself. Another wave of nausea made me dizzy with dread. "Don't go anywhere."

Chuckling at his own joke, he made Narcissa a mocking half-bow and held the door open for her. She marched through without looking back, her head held high, and Pugh slammed it shut again behind her.


End file.
